


Comfort

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (Jack And Sophie), Brief Mention Of Child Torture(Case), Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mycroft has Low Self Esteem, Original Character(s), Poor thing, Translation Fic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7081138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a particularly grueling case, Lestrade needs someone. Not just anyone, however.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Another one of my translations from a personal fic, just because it's Friday...

 

 

Mycroft's main mobile buzzed where it sat on the mahogany of his home office's massive desk. Of course he hadn't actually been sleeping, just dozing a bit in the lush office chair, as real sleep evaded him once again in the wake of all that was on his busy mind. Perhaps it was his younger brother, needing some sort of favour that would seem elaborate to the general public, but to them was more like picking up the milk on their way home. Not that Sherlock didn't make everything significantly more difficult than it had to be, even for him. But, he supposed, that like any other big brother, it was his lot in life. As he blinked oceanic eyes at whose name showed on the screen in surprise, another text came in. 

 

 

 

**_CAN I CALL YOU? -GL_ **

**_NEVER MIND IT'S TOO LATE SORRY -GL_ **

****

    
What?

    
He was ringing him right away before he thought further about it.

    
"Greg," he stated in lieu of both greeting and question.

    
"Hey, Myc. Sherlock's fine. As far as I know, anyways. I didn't mean for you to..." Mycroft remained quiet for a moment, waiting for him to complete his thought. He never did.

    
"Are you alright?"

    
"No," he replied softly yet definitively. "I... didn't know who else to call." The case must have been horrible. Mycroft could hear the tattered edges of tears in the usually stoic or playful Detective Inspector's voice. It would be bordering on terrifying, if he felt that sort of thing for people that weren't blood related.

    
"Am I correct in assuming you have Jack and Sophie this weekend?"

    
"Yeah they... they're sleeping."

    
"I should hope so. It's...," Mycroft pulled the phone down to check the time, "two a.m." Greg took a deep shaking breath, his tone now forced cheer.

    
"Yeah it's really late. Sorry to have bothered you. Have a good night!" Before he could tell Greg he did no such thing, the line went dead and, after the third callback attempt went unanswered, Mycroft hauled himself up, back into his sage and heather suit jacket, and got a cab to the residence of one Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He used a skeleton key he'd acquired for the locks of everyone close to Sherlock on the front door of the building as he didn't want the buzzer to wake the children, and knocked softly on number fifteen, holding a nice bottle of scotch he'd grabbed from the fully stocked bar on his way out. Greg answered the door sideways, indicating to Mycroft that he was armed, because an unexpected visitor at two-thirty in the morning was unusual and he was a cop to the core. "Mycroft," he blurted in surprise.

    
"Need somebody to help me get rid of this," Mycroft said, holding the bottle up. "I don't often have drinking companions." Or companions in general.

    
"Think I might know of someone who could help you out," he said, though he didn't quirk his usual smirk, but remained stone faced and wary-eyed as he opened wider to let him in. It was a typical bachelor's one-bedroom, though it was a little neater than someone who spent more time there, and not because of the kids' visit. The few scattered toys and other items were the only indicators they were present.

    
"Are you going to put Sophie to bed?" Mycroft asked of the toddler sleeping hard on the sand-coloured sofa.

    
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. She falls asleep more easily with me. It's a bit of a comfort." Unexpected warmth washed over Mycroft at the vision of Greg stretched out on the sofa, flipping through the channels with the dark haired toddler laid on his chest. It was reminiscent of the times that had happened with Sherlock when he was very small. Then he was saddened a bit, as the full force of what Greg had said reminded him what he had come for. After telling him he should go ahead and start without him, Greg departed for the bedroom as Mycroft searched the cupboards for clean tumblers. He could only find the cups used to train children how to drink from a proper one. He extracted two, without bothering with the lids, and sat on the sofa to pour, then flip through the channels, not really focusing on anything. He was just going through the motions. It seemed to be his forte. From the sky blue cup he took a long sip before Greg returned to correctly assume the green one was his. "Classy," he teased.

    
"Only things clean at the moment," Mycroft said without looking at him.

    
"Oh... yeah... sorry."

"Think nothing of it." Really, Mycroft minded not one whit.

"Well salut anyways." They tapped the rims together and drained the containers, letting the amber liquid burn on the way down. Downing another generous portion, Lestrade poured again, this time just sipping. Mycroft gave him time and space, removing his jacket and leaning comfortably on the couch's arm, cup in his right hand, left in a loose fist on which to lean his temple.

    
"She was... just a baby," Greg said out of nowhere. Mycroft's response was to take another sip of his drink. That way, it was known that he was paying attention, _sans_ the potential embarrassment men tended to suffer from being observed whilst so obviously emotionally vulnerable. "Maybe six month's older than... my Sophie." Greg, who had taken up channel changing duties, stopped on a sports one, a recap of an earlier match playing out. "The things they did to her... she was..." There was a loud swallow and a small choking sound before he buried it in drink once again. "The only reason I'm here now is that the feds took it over because, come to find out, it was part of an international slave trade... FUUUCK!" Greg roared the last word into an ancient throw pillow. Mycroft half-expected to see him entering some pub earlier that evening with his younger sibling's best friend John Watson, as the literal and figurative Big Brother knew they'd been part of the initial investigation. His children being on their visitation weekend was the only explanation of this not occurring.

Attempting to push aside his slight alarm, Mycroft sat up, put his cup down, and did what he used to do with Sherlock, when rage at the general populace's ineptness would over take his little body even as a small child. He pulled Greg's head into his lap. Greg buried his face in Mycroft's stomach as the latter ran a well-manicured hand through silver locks that were just starting to grow out again from his last hair cut, and trying his best not to feel self-conscious about the pudge where the rather grizzled face was.

    
Mycroft found himself almost desperate not to cry with him as he watched Greg crumble. The man was needing support and Mycroft of course couldn't break with him. The extremeness of his desire to was rather alarming. So he did the only thing he could think of that would simultaneously soothe and give himself something other than empathy on which to concentrate.

    
The humming start hesitantly, as that's how Mycroft felt about it. He hadn't done this in a long while, let alone for an adult, ever. But soon he just let it ring out, as if he were calming a little Sherlock. Slowly, Greg's breathing started to gentle. By the end of the first movement(as the entirety of the piece was nearly thirty minutes long), he was completely calm.

    
"I recognise that a bit," Greg mentioned. "I mean, I've heard it around but I heard you humming that whilst you were sitting between the kids that one time. So that's the song they keep asking about," he sniffed, then sat up and blew his nose as casually as if he hadn't actually been sobbing in Mycroft's lap a few moments before. 

    
"They ask you about it?"

    
"Yeah. Apparently it made a big impression."

    
"Did it?"

    
"Yeah. Been racking my brain over what they were talking about. They kept calling it the Greeg song, or something like that. Like my name but a long 'e', Jack keeps saying."

"Grieg. Edvard Grieg. He was a late eighteenth century Norwegian composer. That was his opus number 16."

"Ah," said Greg. Not for the first time with him, Mycroft was unsure whether or not his explanation was well received. "Well anyways, that was lovely."

    
"Thank you..."

    
"No really it was..." He was staring at Mycroft with deep, dark eyes and the bureaucrat had no idea what it meant or what to do other than hold his gaze

But then Greg kissed him. Hard.

And Mycroft was, surprisingly, letting him. He knew all about the psychological concept called 'Affirmation of life', had engaged in it on more than one occasion, during his rather long career of doing whatever needed to be done, when, where, and however it required doing. From getting information, to keeping morale up, and everything in between, Mycroft repeatedly sacrificed his mind and body to the deity that was the Commonwealth. Sherlock had of course taken a different route, choosing celibacy and disguising his rather large heart with a costume of intellectual apathy. It was a path Sherlock would violently veer off of in a moment if he just once experienced the way Greg Lestrade kissed. Well not Greg in particular. Lestrade was his.

And wasn't that a sobering thought?

Mycroft Holmes only ever felt aggressively possessive over exactly three things; his mind, his job, and his remaining family. Adding something to that trifecta was monumental, especially when that something took him by complete surprise with how much he wanted it.

He wanted no one else to touch him in that way after Greg Lestrade had done so. His face, his chest, his back, his mouth was off limits from the moment Greg Lestrade pressed his strong hands, the pads of thick, rough fingers, and his talented tongue over and into them. Mycroft was nearly panicking over how much he wanted this, with this particular man. Just when he thought he'd be able to gather himself in order to display his own prowess, that particular spot on his neck was sucked, or that extremely specific erogenous zone was manipulated and he could do nothing but hang on for dear life, hoping against hope whatever noises he was making didn't wake the children.

He counteracted it as best he could, grabbing the decorative cushion into which Greg had vented his frustration and shoving his face into it, biting down hard just in time to release a massive groan that was the result of the sudden grip on his almost too-hard cock. Removing the cushion to reveal the flushed olive skin of a bared chest, generously sprinkled with the same silver and onyx on the bearer's head, didn't help one iota. Spicy cinnamon eyes regarded him in an almost feral fashion and it was all he could do not to actually beg for contact to be resumed. Instead, he calmly and swiftly unbuckled the belt, unbuttoned the waist, and undid the zip of the bulging trousers before him, going very slightly closer and farther from his hands in turn. He didn't dare catch those eyes again, lest he become nothing other than a useless puddle of desire, unable to satisfy. He reached through the slit in the dark grey boxers and Greg's stiff member almost literally popped out, leaking nearly as much as the one of which he had a hold.

Mycroft had no idea how his shirt had become unbuttoned and no logic with which to figure it out. All that existed at the moment was Greg Lestrade wanting him, in whatever capacity, but immediately. A few strokes had them both close and leaking copiously. With a brief glance that was almost Mycroft's undoing, they quietly agreed to coat each other with a mix of saliva and pre-come before pressing themselves together, tightly lacing the fingers of his left and Greg's right hand together around the concentrated center of their pleasure. Well, it _was_ the center until, even as they maintained a cooperative stroking motion, Greg began expertly applying lips and tongue and suction to anything on Mycroft's torso he could reach, lingering on the bits that got the largest reaction.

"Greg..." was all Mycroft could gasp.

"I know, love," he moaned softly. "I know. Come on, love. With me." Greg clamped his mouth down over his, tongues mingling, what would have been rather loud groans and a bit of swearing muffled severely through their connection. Mycroft's free arm was around Greg's neck, holding their faces so tightly together, he almost feared he was choking him. But if he could make sounds, he could breathe sufficiently, and they sped up their movements in unison until they were nearly shouting into each other's now unmoving mouths, a hot salve spreading over the skin of his rather ginger-haired belly, despite the raven on his head that matched that of all the men in his family on his paternal side.

Just as the tiniest thought of how he was covered in ejaculate and how he should perhaps feel negatively about that began creeping in through the backdoor of his mind, Greg flattened himself out on top of him, the mess now nothing but the spread in the most delicious sandwich. Greg shoved his arms beneath Mycroft, around what he thought of as his ample waistline, and squeezed. His dear face was damp with perspiration as well and he sighed a hot, content breath into Mycroft's neck.

"I swear it must be a Holmes family trait to have such a narrow waist. I _almost_ wish I was a relation." What?

"I assure you that-"

"That what?" Greg raised his head to hit him with an arresting expression. It was authoritative, passionate, a bit dangerous... Perfect. "That you're not the hottest thing I've seen in decades?" Mycroft had no idea what to do with that information. "Well get used to it, love. I just hope I can keep my hands off you long enough for us to be able to do our respective jobs." Mycroft made several attempts to respond and, for the life of him, could find no words. This was an extremely rare occasion. He would have panicked at his mind not working properly if he wasn't being so thoroughly _supported_ in Greg's embrace. Everything about it practically shouted that the man was being truthful. That, on top of his loyalty, faithful even during past relationships with cheaters gave Mycroft no choice but to be comforted. There was, however, still confirmation to be had.

"So this is not merely an act of life affirmation after such a difficult case?"

"What? Of course not! I mean, there's a fair amount of that included, but I wouldn't do this with just anyone because I was upset and needed someone. I didn't expect this to happen. Especially with you, of all people." He was preaching to the choir. He was also absently caressing Mycroft's hair back from his forehead with his clean hand in a most comforting fashion. "I've fancied you from the first time I lay eyes on you." Really?!

"Is that so?" was what he actually, calmly, said.

"Aw yeah!" Now Greg was playing in the thinning curls Mycroft often tried hard to tame. They were another, less favourable inheritance from his father's side. He swore Sherlock wore his so long just to mock him. "When you showed up in my office after Sherlock had been hauled in, high as a kite? Couldn't get _enough_ of looking at you. You're very impressive."

"I... I wanted to have a look at one of the very few who could get Sherlock to come to heel, even minimally."

"Yes. Well, he doesn't really comply _well_ , but we have our moments."

"That you do," he said, almost physically ill at how much he actually felt the cloying tone of his words. Greg just kissed him again, slowly and sweetly, as if he couldn't help it.

"You'll be wanting to clean up a bit," he said, Mycroft's whole body suddenly cold when Greg removed himself. He sat up, attempting to cross his arms over his belly in order to hide it and finger comb his hair back into place all at once, as Greg rifled in a bag that obviously contained Sophie's nappies and other paraphernalia associated with a very small child. He halted when Greg glanced up at him then did a double take, expression unreadable.

"Yes?" he asked, hating the hesitancy in his voice.

"My God, you're gorgeous like that."

"Sorry, what?" Mycroft could not grasp the concept right away. Greg was definitely doing things to his mind; and the bastard was making him like it; even welcome it!

"All disheveled after a bit of sexual activity," he explained, approaching him with a case of wet wipes. "It's a good look for you. Don't get me wrong. I love the suits, but this look is my favourite." Like Mycroft, he'd put himself away, but his trousers remained undone as he began gently wiping the mess away, kneeling. "Mind you, I'll probably like it even better without anything on, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Mycroft barely repressed a moan. He was surprised he didn't return the compliments right away, but then it seemed Greg was an expert at making him surprise himself. He'd found the DI unreasonably attractive from the start as well. He was clever in a way that was different from he and Sherlock, as most were, but just as useful. Handling Sherlock was no mean feat and, as frustrated as he understandably got, Greg managed it effortlessly, with no prior information or warning. "You're welcome to stay. I can put the boy on the sofa and you could... I have actual food in for meals tomorrow." It was so very tempting. But, no.

"I must get back home," Mycroft said, infusing his words with as much regret as he could muster. "Besides, there's no reason to displace the child. Wouldn't he find it odd if we were..."

"What...? Oh! No. No he knows I like blokes too. It wouldn't phase him in the least." What a spectacular parent.

"I really do want to stay, I just have a meeting with the ambassador of-"

"Say no more. I know you're legitimately busy most of the time. I won't take it personally... you know... in the future..." He was actually questioning whether or not they _had_ a future. That was busy boring old Mycroft's job to worry that such a rare and beautiful specimen of humanity such as Greg Lestrade would be put off of _him_! Mycroft had replaced his jacket and dug in the inner pocket frantically for the card, pressing it into Greg's divine hands.

"I will make time. You have my word." The word of Mycroft Holmes was practically a written contract signed by the Queen herself. "Any time you'd like to see me unscheduled, give whomever is there this card. I shall give you, or, if I'm unavailable at the time have whomever is there give you a different one each time. He gave him a second card that bore only a number. "Only Sherlock has this number, and that's only because he... Well you know how he is."

"I do," Greg grinned with an inordinate amount of charm. He walked Mycroft to the door, astounding him yet again by helping him on with his coat in a most gentlemanly fashion, then shoving him up against it in an extremely roguish way, kissing him deeply, not only to reassure him, but to feel him once more before he was gone. "I've half a mind to mark you," he murmured, with gentle kisses to whatever exposed bits of Mycroft's neck he could find.

"I'd let you," came a rather breathless reply.

"But it wouldn't do for you to go into an important meeting with a love bite." Before Greg even finished talking, Mycroft had significantly loosened his tie and undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt.

"Here," he pointed to a place significantly lower than his collar. He wasn't surprised that the action of being physically claimed by this man put him at half-mast once again. It was positively adolescent.

"Fuck, Myc," Greg breathed shakily. _Fuck, Greg_ , Mycroft's mind unhelpfully supplied. "You need to go, because I'm about ready for round two and you have that meeting and all..."

Mycroft hurriedly kissed him good-bye and practically flung himself out the door, not even breathing until he got to the street and into a randomly passing empty cab. The mere thought of this was difficult, let alone the execution of it. But, working for something tended to make the rewards that much sweeter, and Mycroft could hardly imagine anything better than what had just happened. Well, he could, but it wouldn't have been conducive to maintaining his dignity or train of thought long enough to give the cab driver the address to his office.

There was no way he was to get rest now, so he may as well put the time to good use.


End file.
